


Yet We Remain

by nighthowler



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8197346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighthowler/pseuds/nighthowler
Summary: The first time Agron sees the Syrian boy in a line of former slaves, he has fire in his eyes and in his veins and in his sneer. And when the boy is given sword, hands do not move to clasp it, eyes stare ahead in defiance. Agron thinks: a wild dog. Agron thinks: dead within a week. Agron thinks: beautiful.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Agron sees the Syrian boy in a line of former slaves, he has fire in his eyes and in his veins and in his sneer. And when the boy is given sword, hands do not move to clasp it, eyes stare ahead in defiance.

Agron thinks: a wild dog.

Agron thinks: dead within a week.  
  
Agron thinks: beautiful.

And when the boy's eyes fall on his own, Agron looks away, because _dead within a week_ echoes in ears.

Then the wild dog bites, his fangs a dagger and his victim Spartacus's back. He does not like it, but he agrees with Crixus. The boy is far too dangerous to be allowed to live. Yet, when he looks at him, he is reluctant to see it so. Spartacus tells him that it is not easy to accept new-found freedom. Agron considers this. He had been free before captured and sold to Batiatus, he had known what it is to live under no one's will but your own. The boy doesn't.

Agron watches as Crixus throws fist on mouth. He watches as the boy stifles a gasp, he watches as blood pools in his gums, painting his lips, trailing down his chin and he thinks: what would his mouth taste like, all drenched in red and iron? And the boy yet stands, unflinching, even though his jaw bone must burn, even though his tongue must be split where he bit it. He growls, and when his eyes fly to Agron's, Agron does not look away. He knows now, this boy could burn Rome to the ground if he put mind to purpose.

The boy is awake when dawn breaks. Agron watches him from the corner he had claimed for his night's sleep. He is a small thing, yet when the sun catches in his cheekbones, in the crevice of his collarbone, in the dip of his hips, between his knuckles, he stands as a god. He is golden in that moment, with the earth swimming in his eyes. Yet, a moment later, his shoulders slump and he stands as if lost, as if he does not recognize the walls around him. Morning meal has been served, but the boy has taken nothing. Agron rises. He grabs a piece of bread and gives it to the boy in passing. He takes it mechanically and they speak no words.

Later, boy becomes god again, with sword in hand and sun upon back. He has ravens in his hair and honey in his eyes and pain in the frown of his mouth. What hurts has he been through, Agron thinks, that cause such hate to ignite inside him? He watches the boy again, the rise and fall of chest, the dents of muscle in his arms, the lines of his shoulderblades.

“Should've put the boy down,” Donar says, and if Agron glares, he does not know why. “Dog bites once, he will bare fucking teeth again.”

And Agron feels strange sadness coiling in his stomach, for a boy painfully young, for a boy not yet dead, for a god that did not make it to Olympus. He wants to say: he will be loyal. He wants to say: he will live. He wants to say: he has to live. He says: pity.

Afterwards, when training is over, he watches the boy run a wet cloth over forearms, hands, shoulders, washing sand and dirt away. Water runs down tendon upon neck. A sudden urge grips Agron. He suddenly wants to go behind him, to brush hair away from neck, and run his tongue across that tendon, trail his fingers down those shoulders. Spartacus calls his name and he turns away. When he looks back, the boy is gone.

He speaks to him that night, even though he speaks more of death than anything else. He is called Tiberius – a slave name, a Roman name. The name is a jagged piece and it does not fit the image of the god that Agron slowly constructs in his mind. They talk of brothers and Agron feels it in his bones when the boy swallows. He knows that pain, the clenching of throat, the burn behind eyes, the numbness of tongue. He knows the pain of lost brothers. He speaks of Duro. He never speaks of Duro, not even to Spartacus. Yet he tells this boy of the pain clawing at heart when night grows dark. And the boy listens, Agron realizes. He listens with a softness of voice and eyes that he did not possess before. The storm in his eyes has subsided and the earth in them is calm and smooth and warm and Agron wants to wrap himself in it. He lets anger seep into words at the end and they flow out of mouth bitter. _As you shall, one day. If you hold any fucking sense._ He says it because he wants to save him, he realizes as he leaves. The boy's eyes burn on his back.

– – – –

Agron does not like fucking plan. Because the boy will stand right in front of Roman shits, alone and exposed. And he should not care, he knows – was he not the one who pressed Spartacus to kill the slave but a night ago? He does not understand, what this fire burning deep in stomach means, or the fast beating of heart in chest. All he knows is – he wants to be near. So he hides close to courtyard, with sword poised for attack and he waits.

The Romans come and the boy is afraid. Agron sees it in the set of his jaw. Yet he stands and he plays part well. Slavery is but habit, Agron knows. Hands move of own accord, gaze lowers without one thinking it, and words tumble out respectful and familiar. The boy plays part of slave well, because this is all he has ever been. And then he strays from plan, he invites the Romans in. And Agron aches and curses, because this is it, this is the last Spartacus will tolerate, a second betrayal. He can see it, Crixus running blade through dark throat, through the tendon that Agron had imagined kissing but mere hours before. He wonders now, if he would defend the boy, if he would fall between flesh and blade to stop it from striking heart. Answer to question comes so easily that it terrifies him: _yes_.

Agron is late to attack, seized by thought as he was. Yet he roars as he runs in the courtyard, sees the boy crouching nearby. His hair has fallen over shoulder, and he looks painfully beautiful, painfully young, painfully fragile. Yet when he stands and runs sword through Roman back and chest, he puts all his weight to it with no hesitation, as if he has done it a thousand times before, as if he did not just kill his first man, as if he were made to have Roman blood on his hands.

Agron runs to him, but Crixus is there first, with hand curled around neck and there were many times when Agron wanted to kill the man, but now he _aches_ for it, he craves it with an instensity he has never felt before. He steps forward, but Spartacus speaks first, and the boy talks with an urgent honesty that makes Agron crumble. “His eyes fell to my neck, he noticed the absence of my collar, if I had not allowed him in, he would have returned with more men.”

Crixus's hand unwraps from throat and a sudden thought seizes Agron, that no one should touch that throat but him.

“You did well, Tiberius,” Spartacus says and turns away, but Agron is still watching, he is always watching, and the boy's face falls and it is small and vulnerable and hurt and Agron hates it, hates that pain that darkens his features.

“Nasir,” the boy says and his eyes turn to him, to Agron, right at his face. And Agron cannot breathe, he cannot move, because the boy is looking at him, _right at him,_ and he trembles. “My brother called me Nasir.”

Agron is frozen, but he makes himself nod. The image in his mind is taking shape. _Nasir_. He wants to say it, to shape it in his mouth, to feel his tongue wrap around the vowels, his teeth bite at the hissing sounds.

Spartacus leaves and Crixus follows, but Agron remains. He stares but for a moment longer, and then, “ _Nasir_ ,” it spills out of him and it feels right in his mouth, as if his lips were made to say it, as if he had not known correct words until that moment. He smiles when Nasir does. “Come. Let us share cup. You are in need of wine.”

And Nasir follows.

Bloodied fingers brush dark ones as Agron passes cup and touch leaves him breathless. “I find myself confused, little man. One moment you make attempt on Spartacus with blade in hand and the next you save him from equal blow. What purpose does mind hold?”

“Would that I knew.” Nasir drains his cup fast and refills it. He drains it again, refills it.

Agron finds himself placing hand upon wrist to hinder movement. The bone beneath his fingers is slender and thin. Agron runs a thumb across it and over the small bumps of veins that surround it and he can fill Nasir's pulse fluttering within his grasp. He finds himself holding his wrist with a gentleness he did not know he possessed. “Thought of killing rests heavy upon you, but you shall find no refuge in wine,” he says, as if he were not the one who made suggestion in the first place.

“And where shall I find it?” Nasir's voice is hoarse.

Agron does not let go of his wrist. “In the justice you brought by ridding the world of another Roman shit. A slave shall sleep easily tonight, without his whip lashing upon back.”

“And what if he finds self lost without whip upon back to put him to purpose?” A moment passes where he looks at cup within hand. Agron does not find the words to offer comfort. “Its bite is all I have ever known,” Nasir continues. “How do I trade whip for choice and free will?”

“Have you not already?” Agron asks. He moves his hand downwards, resting it in the warm crook of Nasir's elbow. How delicate this boy is, how easily Agron could break him within his hands, if he wished it.“You killed the Roman soldier, not beneath lash, not upon order, but by choice. You too shall embrace this new life, Nasir. You may not realize it, but you were made for it.”

“Oh?” Nasir smiles. The wine and its fast consumnation has made him tipsy, Agron realizes. “And what observation leads you to such conclusion?”

Agron says it before he can stop himself. “You have smile made for war and spirit even more so.”

Nasir laughs soundlessly, a breathing sound that makes chest and shoulders heave. Agron finds himself distracted by the simple movement. “And here I thought I was clouded by wine, but it seems you stand more so affected.” Nasir makes to move, but stumbles, and Agron's hold tightens around elbow to steady him.

“Gratitude,” Nasir says.

“Come, little man, let us put you to bed,” Agron says and he does not realize he is smiling until cheeks begin to hurt. “Where do you usually sleep?”

“In the slave dormitory,” Nasir replies. “Even though, I would not wish to return there."

Agron nods and doesn't ask, because he knows. He takes Nasir's cup from fingers and leads him away, with hand still around elbow. To steady him, he says to himself, but he knows it is not true. He finds himself walking them towards his corner, where his cloak is spread with his coat bundled upon it to serve as pillow. He helps Nasir lay down, watches as the Syrian buries his beautiful face in the folds of his coat, wraps his fingers in the fabric below him and Agron can only think of how both coat and cloak will smell like Nasir in the morning, like rose oil and jasmine and sweat.

Nasir falls asleep quickly enough for Agron to realize that he had probably not slept last night. Agron finds refuge in the opposite corner, on hard floor, but he minds not. He is close enough to watch Nasir, close enough to feel the warmth of his body and hear his breathing and his mind races. He realizes again, with a breath-catching suddenness, how achingly beautiful the boy is. He is fascinated by him, Agron realizes; has grown hugely fond of him in such short time and he feels protective of him, _too_ protective, perhaps, for a boy he just met and who laid attempt to put Spartacus to grave.

The next morning, Nasir passes him folded cloak and coat shyly. Agron makes sure their hands touch as he takes the clothing from him. “Apologies,” Nasir says.

“None required,” Agron says.

“I made you seek sleep on ground,” Nasir says and he lingers, Agron realizes with a sudden warmth within chest.

“I am used to such,” he replies, to ease the boy's mind. Nasir smirks. Soft hair curves and catches upon neck, eyes fireless and peaceful, skin glinting like honey. Agron stares, quite openly, but Nasir does not comment on it and Agron is thankful. “Were you comfortable?”

“Very much so,” Nasir says with a smile that makes Agron's cheeks burn. He nods and makes to leave because he is practically gaping, but Nasir catches his arm with fingers soft as velvet and Agron suddenly trembles. “Gratitude,” Nasir says, and there's something broken hidden beneath voice that Agron cannot place.

“What for?”

“I am not often on the receiving end of kindness. I appreciate it when shown, especially by one who owes me nothing.” He smiles then and it bursts from him bright and extraordinary. He has smiled before, but this one is open, less guarded, full of teeth and dimples.

Agron reaches forward and places hand upon Nasir's cheek. It is smooth beneath palm, prickling slightly where stubble grows and Agron is fascinated by the way his fingers perfectly tuck in the curve of Nasir's jawline. This boy deserves everything, he thinks. He deserves moon and stars, sun and light. He deserves the world. Agron decides: he will give it to him. “Smile more often and see debt paid,” he says and feels heat beneath hand when Nasir blushes.

He steps away slowly and leaves with a nod serving as farewell, because he does not trust his voice.

When morning meal has been taken, Spartacus comes to him. “Perhaps it is time to resume training, while sun is still mild upon back.”

Agron pushes the last of bread in mouth and rises. “Am I to instruct them?”

Spartacus shakes head. “Crixus will see to that.”

“And what would you have _me_ do?” Agron asks, with a hint of anger. He does not wish to stay without duty, nor does he wish to see himself replaced by a _Gaul_.

“I would have you spar with Nasir,” Spartacus replies, quite casually, but there's smile tugging at corners of lips and Agron is not fooled.

Agron looks away, feigns indifference. “I thought you had taken such task upon yourself.”

“I would have Nasir take advantage of small stature to escape the enemy. You are bigger than I and thus greater hinderment.”

“And I am certain this is the only reason.”

Spartacus shrugs. “Is it not reason enough?” Agron frowns, half in embarassment, half to amuse his leader and it takes a moment for Spartacus to laugh. “You have eyes set upon Nasir, even when task given to you does not involve him. I would have you combine both, if it helps to ease distraction.”

Agron grumbles, but is secretly pleased. Spartacus is still looking at him with smirk upon lip. “Do not cast such fucking look,” he hisses and leaves to carry orders out.

Nasir is sitting in the corner of the villa's steps. Agron knows, because he takes note of the Syrian's movements, even when he is not aware of doing so. Nasir looks up from meal – he chose to eat today, Agron sees with relief – and smiles, eyes squinting against the sun. Agron cannot help smile from spreading to own lips. He gives him end of sword and Nasir grips it between fingers surer than yesterday.

“Come,” Agron says.

Nasir rises with confusion upon brow. “I thought I was to train with Spartacus,” he says.

“I would be your opponent today,” Agron says and then stops and turns around to look at Nasir, because a throught strikes him. “Unless you do not desire my company.” He forces his presence upon Nasir, he realizes, hounds his steps like second shadow.

“No, no.” Nasir says quickly. He reaches forward, places palm upon Agron's arm so easily, as if they do this every day, and Agron's skin burns and tingles where their flesh joins. “Apologies, I did not mean to pass false message.”

Agron feels warmth spreading in chest. “Do not apologize,” he says, because he sees the way Nasir's eyes lower upon ground, an act of slavery. He reaches forward, cups chin in hand and raises it, so that Nasir's eyes are again upon his own. “And do not lower gaze. I am not your dominus, nor is anyone else. You are a free man.”

Nasir smiles. Agron feels cheek stretching beneath his hand. “I have hard time believing it,” he says and watches Agron's hand as it slides away. “Your company is very much appreciated.”

Agron may be blushing, he does not know, but he can hear blood rushing in ears. “As is yours,” he says. “Now, unless you intend to strike Romans dead with sweet words, we better train.”

And they do. Nasir's movements are fast and brash, but still much improved since yesterday. He does not expose flank as often as he used to and he learns to duck out of Agron's attacks fast enough for the gladiator to lose sight of him for mere seconds, before turning to find him behind back. Nasir is quick in a fight, Agron notices, but does not run from it unless necessary. He stays his ground and hisses when he casts blow. “Good, Nasir!” Agron finds himself saying, too often, but it is only deserved. “Come at me! Again!” The Syrian smiles every time and strikes again with renewed vigor and it is all worth it when he finally manages to knock sword out of Agron's grasp, with hand upon his throat as if ready to strangle him. The palm is slick with sweat and Agron feels it around neck like a welcome noose. He would gladly hang himself with it. He grins. “You learn quickly, little man.”

Nasir smiles. His hand slides down his neck, in the dip between Agron's cavicles, traces the bones there, before it comes to rest on Agron's chest. Agron does not dare move, in fear of breaking the moment. They are both panting. Eyes as brown as pure earth look up to Agron and they are wild, burning with a fury that belongs only to free men. Nasir had it in him all along and Agron released it, letting it consume him, filling the numbness of slavery with the thrill of desire and choice. It is a beautiful change to witness on Nasir's face, curls black as night and snug against neck and forehead, hand strong and sure on Agron's chest.

“Nasir!” Spartacus shouts and the hand drops, leaving skin burning behind. Agron looks over to where Spartacus stands, beckoning them with water skins. “Come,” the Thracian says with gentle smile. “There is something I would have us discuss.”

They drop swords on ground and join Spartacus in the shade. Nasir drains his drink in quick gulps. Agron watches as water escapes the tight pucker of Nasir's lips, as it trickles down chin and neck to join the drops of his sweat. When he forces gaze away, he is breathing hard.

Spartacus spreads map on the table before them, presses a finger to point not far from Mount Vesuvius.

“The villa,” Nasir says, confused.

Spartacus nods. “Our position is here. Your dominus mentioned that Naevia was put to cart, to be passed to the next villa. You know the grounds around here, do you not?”

Nasir nods. “I often occompanied my dominus on his trips,” he says, but there is creeping disgust on tone. He begins to see, Agron realizes, what the collar around his neck really meant, now that he has experienced freedom.

“Batiatus sought to rise to power. He would send Naevia to one of high position, yet within close range to this villa.”

Nasir nods in understanding. He looks at map for but a few moments, crease between his eyebrows – Agron wishes to touch it with his thumb– and places a finger to a spot on the map. “Here,” Nasir says with confidence. “Balbus Sixtinius. His brother holds high place in the Senate.”

“A relationship Batiatus would surely wish to take advantage of.” Spartacus muses.

“And one that we better consider, before planning attack,” Agron hears himself say. He has never been the voice of reason, he knows. He craves for Roman blood, dispises sitting with ass upon hand. Even as he speaks the words, he itches for a fight, for the feel of Roman bone crashing within his fingers. Yet, he would see this rebellion take base and become an army, see their numbers replenished and his brothers live, not wasted to hounds sniffing after Naevia's scent. “We risk much, striking blow so close to the senate, for a lost cause.”

“Lost to you,” Nasir says softly and when Agron turns to look at him, the Syrian's face is surprised, as if he had not himself expected to speak. “Would you not lay equal attempt despite circumstances, had it been someone you hold to heart in her place?” He looks at Agron through black lashes, a timid glance, yet unwavering.

“Nature of such feelings has but started being known to me,” he murmurs, because he wishes to be honest, and because he cannot say _no, I would not,_ nor can he say _yes, I would,_ for he does not know himself, yet.

Corners of Nasir's mouth twitch into shy smile and he averts his gaze. Agron is saved by ensuing awkwardness by the appearance of Crixus. For the first time in his life, Agron is happy to see the man.

“You allow the boy to strategy meetings now?” He asks of Spartacus.

“Shut fucking mouth,” Agron growls. “He offers help in regards to Naevia.”

Crixus's face lightens. It must be greatest blessing and blackest curse, Agron thinks, to love someone so deeply, to care so selflessly, to hold them in such regard. He looks at Nasir, the sharp angle of his jaw, the shadow his lashes cast upon dark cheek. For a moment, he can see what Crixus fights for.

They agree on leaving for the next villa on first light. Agron keeps busy with training those able of wielding sword and when task is over, he sees to the weapons they are in possession of. Their supply is short, but he makes sure each blade is sharpened and whetted, the head of each spear securely tied to the handle. Mira asks for help carrying chests way too heavy for her and Agron agrees, heaving them up and down the villa's stairs. When he is done, he busies himself with going over the plans for tomorrow. He pores over the map in attempt to find the safest and yet quickest route.

When all is done, it is night. He is tired and his muscles ache, yet he builds a makeshift bed for Nasir in the room where they sleep, in case the Syrian finds himself again at lack of place to pursue dreams. He carries furs from wherever he can find them in the villa, piling them in layers so that bed is soft and no bite of ground can be felt. He drapes a cloth over it for cover.

He does not know where Nasir is and he wishes to find out, but he has become obvious enough as it is and realizes that the Syrian might need time alone to consider his new life. Agron needs it too, to figure out his own mind, for he does not know how to interpet these new feelings that have seized hold of his heart and stomach and head, nor the way he is driven by them. So, he sits upon his own bed, the one that Nasir had slept but last night. He curls among the covers and buries nose within their folds. He breathes in deeply. He was right. Nasir is all over it, his sweet scent mixed with Agron's. It tugs at Agron's heart. He knows he ought to feel guilty for this, ought to feel like intruding where he should not, ought to feel that he claims ownership of something that does not belong to him, yet he cannot resist. There is something intimate in breathing in, filling his lungs with Nasir, something raw and tender. He wonders then, what it would feel like to wake up to this every day, with Nasir's smell around him and in him and everywhere, what it would feel like to lay with their legs tangled and his nose buried in Nasir's strands of hair.

It grows quiet around him. He hears breathless moans from somewhere far behind him, but he does not pay them mind. It is dark and the torches flicker in the walls. Nighttime is Duro's time. His brother comes at him, sometimes smiling, sometimes bloody, but always dying. Agron closes his eyes, and Duro is behind his eyelids. It is a different memory each time. Tonight, Agron remembers when they were but children running among snowed fields. He remembers as his brother slips on ice, but Agron's hand is there to steady him, even though falling would not have given him more than a scrapped knee. Agron did not save him when it mattered. He wants to shed tears, but he does not. He refuses to. There are better ways, he concludes, to deal with death. Guilt, for one. He showers himself with it, clings to it, for it is more tangible, more familiar than grief. Guilt, he knows. Guilt, he has wrapped himself in all his life. And then, violence helps him too. When he strikes and hits and draws blood and hurts equally in return, he cannot hear his brother's last breath over the clash of swords.

“You look troubled,” a voice says near him. Agron looks up and sees Nasir sit next to him. He does not welcome company, not when he is like this, when his thoughts are dark and broken, but he welcomes Nasir's. He is relieved that he is there. “What thoughts put furrow on brow?”

He hesitates and considers if he should tell. He does not speak of Duro, that is Agron's first rule. He does not want the world to taint his memory. They do not deserve to know him, to take taste of what Agron had loved and failed. Yet, as he looks at Nasir, he wants the Syrian to know. He needs it with a sudden ferocity that makes his stomach heave. Duro is Agron's, but he thinks that he could be Nasir's too, because Nasir is not like the others, he is sacred and gentle and he does not mar or taint and, maybe, Agron does not have to suffer alone anymore.

“Those of my brother,” he says at last, through clenching of throat. “And of times brighter.”

Nasir does not touch him. He sits cross-legged next to Agron, as he himself leans sitted with back against wall. Nasir's hands are clasped above his own ankles, and there is something so innocent and young in that position that Agron feels a sudden tenderness. Nasir does not touch him, yet he does. “What was his name?” The Syrian asks softly, carefully and Agron is so grateful, he is so grateful that he almost chokes because of it.

“Duro,” he says, and it almost feels like a betrayal. He does not know how long it has been since he last said his brother's name aloud.

Nasir smiles encouragingly. “Tell me about him.” He leaves the words suspended, somewhere between a request and a question, as if he does not want to push Agron beyond what is comfortable for him.

And it is this very thing, Nasir's care not to prod open wounds barely healed, that makes words spill from mouth. Agron tells him. “He was a fucking fool,” he says, but only affectionately. He does not know how to do this, how to take the image of his brother and put it into words, but he tries. “Duro shined like the fucking sun. Blackest thought could cloud mind, and he would still find way to lighten it. Everything he did, he put great effort in it, poured his whole heart and self to the task.”

“He sounds strong,” Nasir murmurs. His eyes are swimming brown and deep in the candle light. “He sounds like you.”

Agron shakes his head. “We were alike, in many ways. But, in many others, we were not. Duro – ” he has to stop, because there is a lump settling in throat and he has to swallow through it. He looks away, because his eyes are watering. “Duro had strength, but of a different kind. His was gentle and powered by something deep and real. Mine comes from rage and anger and things lost.”

A moment passes during which Agron's feels Nasir's eyes upon him. The Syrian's gaze burns him and soothes him at the same time and he wants to turn and meet it, but he is too afraid that the tears will fall if he does. He feels Nasir shifting, until his body is closer to Agron's. Agron can feel it where Nasir's folded knee touches his thigh. And then Nasir's hand is around his wrist, warm and gentle. His thumb moves in circles over Agron's skin. Agron clings to the touch, because he is starved and alone and lost, and Nasir is here, anchoring him. “You think you failed him,” Nasir says, after a moment.

Agron nods, with eyes still turned on wall. “I _know_ I failed him.”

Nasir's hold on his wrist tightens. “Tell me of how he fell.”

“During attempt to escape the house of Batiatus. He pushed me out of the way of Roman sword and it fell upon his chest instead.” His voice sounds flat and even, in contrast with the turmoil inside him. “He saved me. He would not have to, had I been more careful. It should have been me rotting in the ground, not him. Never him.”

“Look at me,” Nasir breathes, and when Agron does not, because he cannot trust himself, Nasir squeezes his wrist. “ _Look at me,_ ” he says, and his voice is sharp. Agron raises his eyes to the Syrian's. He does not crumble, but he is close to it. “Had your places been reversed, had Duro been in your place and you in his, would you not jump between your brother and Roman blade?”

“Without a second thought.”

Nasir nods, as if he were expecting Agron's answer. “And would you wish your brother to blame himself all his life for your death?” It is a thought Agron had never considered, and he is struck frozen with the truth of it.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Would _you_ blame him for it?”

“No.”

Nasir's hands move to clasp Agron's face. His hold is gentle yet sure. Agron feels soft fingers span the length of his jaw and he closes his eyes, because it feels like he was meant for these hands. “Then do not blame yourself,” Nasir says, his gaze steady and unflinching on Agron's. It is strange to hear his voice like this, so strong and stubborn, as if he wishes to nail his words in Agron's head. “Your brother made choice to save you and, were he given the chance, I am certain he would do so again. Do not let guilt be what you keep from his sacrifice, Agron. Keep the love he bore for you and turn wrath from yourself to those more deserving of it.”

Agron is transfixed. He was shattered and unhinged, but Nasir's words have pinned him. He clutches at them, all too aware of Nasir's eyes swimming like molten gold, of his face so gently tucked between the Syrian's hands. He does not deserve it, he knows he does not, but for a moment, he allows himself to believe Nasir's words. It feels right, as he stays frozen with Nasir's fingers upon his cheeks, to believe that he can be saved. He nods, because it is the only thing he finds himself capable of doing.

Nasir smiles softly and his hands drop. Agron does not want him to go, so he asks, “What of _your_ brother?” He regrets it instantly, because he sees cloud of sadness pass upon the Syrian's face. It darkens his features and Agron hates himself for being the one to cause shadow. “Apologies, I did not mean to stir sad memories.”

“You did not,” Nasir says and there is something in the way he smiles that makes Agron feel lighter. “There are none but one to stir. I only recall a cold night and a tale told from his lips to soothe me to sleep.”

Agron cannot imagine what that is like. His memories of Duro haunt him, yet he is glad to have them. He finds refuge in them and he takes comfort in knowing that while his brother lived, he lived happy and vigorously, with Agron by his side. Nasir does not even have that. “The tale. Do you remember it?”

Nasir nods. Agron scoots over and makes room. Nasir seems to understand, because he lays down next to him, his hair draping around him. They stay on their backs with hands upon their stomachs and do not touch, but for the place where their arms meet. “Tell me,” Agron says.

And Nasir tells him a story, of how the sun had loved the moon in ages passed and of how he chased her around the sky and whispered her name to the stars. Nasir's voice is low and it makes him painfully aware of everything and nothing, and Agron lets it lull him to sleep.

Agron did not know what he had expected when they attacked the villa, but he certainly hadn't expected to fall in love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm late to this fandom. Even though I've liked Spartacus for almost two years, I've never wrote a fic about it before. I was thinking of maybe continuing this and making it into a series of describing the lost moments between Agron and Nasir that led to their kiss at the temple. Would you guys like to see something like that?


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes in the morrow, Nasir is no longer beside him, and the place next to to him is cold. Agron knows he should not have expected more, yet disappointment still meets him. He does his best not to dwell on it.

They leave the villa before sun has risen. The morning is cold and fresh and it fills lungs with scent of jasmine and dew. The earth breathes freely as they move. Agron slept in his armour, as he is so prone to do these days, and the skin around his hips and neck is red and chaffed. Walking does not ease the pain, yet he knows it is a necessity he must live with and he ignores it, as he ignores the fact that Nasir has not met his eyes since he woke, nor broke words with him. 

Last night is constant in mind. Agron rethinks it, too many times, and he fears that Nasir saw how broken Agron really is and is now terrified. Agron would not blame him. There are things inside him that thirst and writhe and cannot be sated and Nasir saw but a mere glimpse of them. So, Agron does not pursue him, even though he wishes to, and lets the Syrian breathe without him present. 

It is a while before their paths cross – Agron being sent to the back of the line to help those weaker of legs, only to find Nasir already there, offering water to a man of too many winters. They were slaves of same dominus, with alike mark branded upon their skin. Agron assists a mother of two babes, by taking loaded sack upon his own shoulder. He directs a lost boy back to his father and comes back to join Nasir. The Syrian smiles at him in greeting, but lips are tight in corners.

“You have undergone great effort to avoid me,” Agron says and tries to cloak words with indifference.

“You speak falsely,” Nasir replies. “I have merely kept busy with those less able. I would be of help to this cause, not mere nuisance.”

“You are no nuisance,” Agron says fast, to erase such thought from Nasir's mind. 

“Am I not?” Nasir asks and takes deep breath through his mouth, as if preparing himself, before asking, “I feel I have been nothing but burden to you. You have went to great lengths for me, but you are of importance to Spartacus and have plenty of tasks placed in your hands. I do not wish you to suppose that I am one of them.”

Agron shakes his head, struggles to find words correct enough to reflect thought. “If that is why you maintain distance from me, you do not need to. You are no task I have undertaken under orders, but welcome distraction to find comfort in, when other tasks have come to an end.”

Nasir catches his own lip between teeth, nips at it in thought. Agron finds himself drawn to the small act, his stomach heating _dangerously_ low. After a moment, the Syrian says, “If that holds truth, then I would gladly offer my company to you at the end of tiring day.”

“As you did yesterday,” Agron reminds him, though last night still shames him at some extent. “Gratitude for your help. I find myself often drawn by dark thoughts.”

“Then I would be there to lighten them, if you would have me.” When Nasir looks up to him, his eyes are full of morning sun, his lashes glinting like black velvet. 

Agron does not know how to voice his gratitude, nor how to return the sentiment. His throat constricts with emotion, so he smiles gently and nods. He hopes Nasir understands. 

Shouts come from ahead, ending their conversation. Mira runs to Agron and warns, “We are nearing the villa and must prepare for fight. Spartacus calls for you.”

Agron nods and places hand upon Nasir's shoulder. “Come with me,” he says and they both start running towards the front of the line, where Spartacus awaits. “Keep close to me during attack,” Agron warns as they run. For the first time, he is frightened before a fight, not for his own safety, but that of Nasir's. “Make effort to use your size to your advantage and do not let yourself be flanked.”

Nasir nods and looks up to him with big eyes. There is fear in them, but something stronger clouds it: determination. Bravery. Agron marvels at the sight of it. 

Spartacus reminds them of plan, when they reach him. It is of no complexity or discretion. They are to make hastened attack, to climb villa walls and kill those guarding the courtyard before the interior guards have time to join the fight. Agron half-hopes that Spartacus will not allow Nasir to fight, even though he is eager to see the Syrian wield sword in actual attack. Spartacus grants permission, however, and soon enough the cover of the trees thins down and the villa looms before them. 

“There are no sentries.” Agron lets out sigh of relief. 

“Only when it is night,” Nasir says, as they stay crouched behind tree trunks. “There is a secret passage. Small gate on eastern wall.”

“Do you know this for certain?” Spartacus says earnestly.

Nasir nods. Agron watches closely and he sees it when Nasir's bright face is replaced by mask of impassiveness as not to show emotion. Agron has been a slave and recognizes the necessity of it and the incapability to abolish such habit. “I entered through it when I was brought here as a gift by my dominus. I was to be kept secret,” Nasir says, and Agron clenches his fists to keep from crying out curses, because he is so angry that this has been done to Nasir, that something so pure and so beautiful had to undergo such treatment, he is so angry at this world and the way it accepts robbing of freedom as natural order, he is so angry that he was not there to save Nasir a long time ago. 

Spartacus nods. “The gate. Is it wood?”

Nasir shakes his head. “Iron-made. There are rods across it. It might be easy to climb.”

“Agron,” Spartacus says, but Agron does not hear him. He is still looking at Nasir and his anger is burning him. “Agron!” Spartacus says again, louder. When Agron raises his eyes, the Thracian looks at him like he knows. “You and I will storm the walls,” he orders. “Crixus. You and your men will make for the secret gate.”

“Understood,” Crixus says.

Spartacus chooses a number of fighting men and they make their way towards the villa walls silently. The taller men crouch and heave the smaller ones upon shoulders, pushing them upwards and giving them enough leverage to climb. Agron does the same. Nasir is light on his shoulders, his calves sun-warmed against Agron's cheeks. Agron grabs his ankles, feels small bone beneath fingers, before rising fully. Nasir swings over top of wall and his weight is gone. Agron wastes no time. He takes steps backwards, runs to gain momentum and jumps. When he makes it over the wall, two Romans already lie dead. Agron only has time to see Nasir fighting close to Spartacus, before a guard runs at him.

The fight is quick but cruel. Agron catches glimpses of Nasir's lithe figure, a flash of raven hair, a swing of a dark arm. He does not need to save the Syrian once. Nasir saves himself. When it is all over, Agron is bathed in Roman blood. He watches as Nasir runs his sword through throat of a fallen guard still drawing breath. He watches as the Syrian's chest rises and falls when he pants. He watches as blood and sweat pool in his navel. He stands beautiful and deadly and Agron wants him.

He goes to him, bends and places kiss upon blood-stained brow before he can think of it. Nasir smiles at him, pupils blown by thrill of fight, fingers rising to clasp Agron's neck. “You stood equal to any of us,” Agron says, honestly. 

Nasir beams at him and raises an eyebrow. “Yet not equal to the best of us all,” he comments. “You fight as if Mars himself.”

Agron's chest blooms with warmth. “You flatter,” he says.

“I merely offer truth,” Nasir replies. There is something different lurking in eyes, an alive thing, bright and excited that was not there before. Agron finds self fascinated by it. But, then, eyes fall upon gash on dark skin, an ugly red lining the gold of Nasir's shoulder. 

He puts hand close to wound, checks its depth. “You are bleeding,” he says, his voice urgent.

Nasir looks surprised when he sets eyes upon injury. “It is only a cut.”

Agron looks at it. It is not deep, merely the slide of a sword's edge across skin. He does not wish for Nasir to get hurt, yet he cannot help how proud he feels, how it swells in his breast as if he were the one making such a strong stand on his first battle. “The first of many,” he says. “Come. The wound needs to be cleaned. I would not have you infected by it.”

He is all too aware of Nasir' hand placed on his back as they walk to the shade. 

He makes fingers as gentle as possible as he works. He pours wine on wound, dabs it with clean cloth. Nasir makes no sound, only takes sharp breaths. “Am I hurting you?” Agron asks.

Nasir shakes his head. “No. You are far too gentle for a man the height of a giant.”

“We cannot all be brutes like Crixus.” Agron smiles. “Did you think me a rock devoid of emotion and incapable of nothing but rough touch?”

"I thought many things, all of them false," Nasir says. “I had heard of your name, before your coming. My dominus and his guests spoke often of the arena. Your prowess in fighting was very much admired. I did not imagine I would ever meet you, much less be your friend.”

Agron thinks of the word "friend". He thinks of what it means, of what it could mean, of what it could change into. For now, he embraces it. He can be a friend to Nasir, if nothing more. It is not a fate he would not welcome. He thinks of Nasir's arm beneath his fingers, of the warmth that flickers in his stomach like flutter of wings, he thinks of Nasir's beautiful eyes. He thinks of how he never thought he would find someone that would take hold of his heart in the way Nasir has. “Many things happen that we never expect,” he says, as he wraps a bandage around the scarred skin. He looks around, at old friends and new, at slaves and free men. “It is an unlikely place to find love, but we all have. In many different ways.”

Nasir casts his eyes upon him and there is something burning in them. “Love. It is a thing a slave does not dare think of.”

“You are no longer a slave,” Agron says as he rises. “You are free to love and be loved in return.”

Nasir smiles at him again and Agron thinks that he will never tire of the sight. “You fight like a gladiator yet speak as a poet. Have you many such secret charms?”

Agron bends again, leans close to Nasir and says, “You will have to find out yourself.”

Nasir laughs low and beautiful close to his ear. "It is a task I shall find great pleasure in," he says. Agron turns red and blames it on sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too cheesy? Yes. Do I mind? Not so much. I'm just a sucker for these two okay and I want them to have many cute moments together because they're perfect and they deserve it and I want them to be happy. <3 Should I keep the chapters coming?


	3. Chapter 3

The night of the capturing of the second villa, they celebrate again. Nasir has not been long amongst the rebels, yet he has already understood that they are passionate and they are loud and any small victory is enough for them to honour with wine and song. Nasir has witnessed many feasts. His dominus was a man of luxury and took advantage of any chance to showcase his riches in grand displays of entertainment. Yet, as Nasir sits on marble steps and watches free men sing and dance and laugh, he thinks that no Roman celebration could possibly be grander than this. 

It is thought he had never had before, one of many that occur in mind these days. He cannot recall a time when he was a man of his own and not something owned and shaped. He lived to obey and obeyed to live and Spartacus has snatched that all away. It is not an easy thing to let go of the only life you have ever known, but Nasir is learning to. He knows now that freedom given to him was a gift from the gods themselves. He does not know what to do with it, yet, and this troubles and pains him, but he would rather have pain inflicted by his own hand than that of his master's. He learns to love this new life.

He would stand a liar if he claimed that Agron had nothing to do with it. The gladiator is of both beauty and kindness that Nasir has not witnessed before. He has eyes greener than clearest sea and body as if chiseled by the great sculptors of Greece. Nasir finds gaze drawn to Agron, more often than he can count. He does not know how to feel – feeling is a pastime forbidden to those lacking freedom – yet he thinks that he _can_ feel when Agron looks at him, when he touches him, when he takes care of him.

Nasir watches as Chadara dances with Rhaskos, both almost naked. He watches as the man he now knows as Crixus remains quiet in a corner. But, most of all, he watches as Agron speaks with Spartacus across the villa. He catches the gladiator gazing at him more than once and feels self blushing. He cannot know Agron's intentions, nor can understand his own fully, yet he is willing to see things take their own course.

It is a while before Agron comes to him. He offers him cup of wine and Nasir takes it gladly. 

“Drink slowly this time, little man,” Agron teases him as he sits beside him. Nasir has grown quite fond of that name, but is reluctant to see it come from other lips but Agron's.

“Cheap advice from one consuming drink as if he stands Dionysus himself,” Nasir teases back. He finds that he enjoys banter such as this, the rightness of it, the easiness that accompanies it, as if they have known each other for years than mere days. 

“I seem to resemble far too many gods in your mind,” Agron says, with dimpled smile upon cheek. 

“Put blame on perfection of your skills,” Nasir says. The boldness of his words surprises him, as it does so often these days, yet he does not regret it. 

“Yet I am not the one who acquired such skills and turned warrior in nothing but mere days,” Agron says. Nasir sees green eyes flashing to his gash upon shoulder. Agron raises his hand to trace the bandaged wound, his brow furrowed. Nasir shivers in ways he has not shivered before. “I do not like seeing you hurt,” Agron all but whispers. 

“You have all taken scars, worse than the one I now bear. Do not let yourself be troubled by it. I am not.”

“I only wish to have prevented it,” Agron murmurs, then smiles. “Yet I stood correct, did I not? You are meant for this life.”

Nasir does his best not to redden. “I find myself enjoying it more and more with each passing day.”

“Yet you do not join in celebration,” Agron says. 

“I prefer to watch from afar,” Nasir says. He sees what happens when the Gauls have had too much to drink. They swing their cocks out and fuck whoever happens to cross their path. Nasir does not wish to be on the receiving end. “You can go, if you wish.”

Agron shakes his head. “No. I prefer your company.”

Nasir feels breath catching in throat. He is gripped by a sudden urge to turn and kiss Agron's lips. He _wants_ to. He has never wanted anything. He gave to his dominus without wanting to give and took anything his dominus offered without wanting to take. Yet he wants Agron, fully and wholly, and it strikes him so suddenly that he is frozen with terror. 

“Nasir?” He hears Agron's voice, hears concern cloaking it. There is hand placed upon his shoulder, hand so strong that it could crush a Roman's life out of body, yet is so gentle when it comes to touching Nasir. “Are you alright? Has tongue spoken too rushly?”

Nasir forces himself to shake the shock of new realization off him. He wants. He has never wanted. “No. Apologies. I only came to sudden realization.”

Agron blinks. His face eases slowly, but there is still concern clouding his eyes. “May I ask what that is?”

Nasir tells him, simply because he wants to. “Only that I stand now allowed to feel and want and have desires fulfilled.”

Agron smiles again, bright enough to rival the sun. Nasir wants to reach up and trail fingers upon the dimples denting cheeks, yet he does not. “Then voice such desires and let me fulfill them. Anything you want, I shall give.”

Nasir shakes his head. “You did not shed life's blood for freedom only to turn slave once again for me.”

“I am willing, am I not? Name it and see it carried out.”

Nasir can see the eagerness in Agron's face, the desire to please him and he understands it, so he smiles and says, “Perhaps one more cup of wine would be welcome.”

Agron laughs. “As you wish. I shall be back shortly.”

He withdraws the empty cup from Nasir's fingers and vanishes in the crowd. Nasir feels ecstatic. There is something deep in stomach that makes it hard for breath to be drawn, but it is not unpleasant. He does not know what it is. He only knows that the places touched by Agron's fingers tingle and burn.

He is deep in thought when shadow falls upon him. He looks up and sees Donar standing above him. There is frown upon lips and anger in eyes. 

“Greetings,” Nasir says. 

“Do not speak words of false kindness, you will see them crush upon _my_ ear.”

Nasir blinks in confusion. He is not afraid, but would prefer to avoid the occurrence of a fight. “False kindness? Apologies, you mistake intent.”

“I am not so easily fooled as those who have placed trust upon you. Even Crixus favours you now, but I have met your kind before. I would not see you repeat attempt on Spartacus, nor any other.”

“Then you need not worry,” Nasir says as he stands. “I regret past actions and now see both Spartacus and his cause for what they really are.”

“Do you now?” Donar growls. Nasir prepares body for impact, tenses muscles and plants feet on ground like Agron has shown him to. Donar's strrength is no match for Nasir's though and he finds self pushed against pillar, with Donar's forearm across his chest, rendering him unable to move. Nasir hisses at him. 

“This stands only time that I shall give warning,” Donar says close to his face. “I have eyes set upon you. Make move suspicious to me, and I shall cut your throat and gut you like fish.”

Nasir glares and makes to nod, but feels Donar's weight being pushed off him and then Agron is there. “Fall from fucking sight, you shit,” Agron growls at the other gladiator, dangerously quiet. 

“It is alright,” Nasir says. He does not wish for trouble, nor be the cause of it. “He meant no harm.”

“The boy stands absent fucking brains!” Donar shouts. “I meant fucking harm, for I do not trust him or his intentions. A whore remains a whore, whether holding cock or sword.”

There is no time to say anything because Agron pushes fist on Donar's face. Donar falls on ground and Agron is upon him, ruthless and wild, punching and drawing blood. Nasir does not know what to do. He knows he is at fault here. He has given reason for doubt, no matter how much he regrets it now. Agron's wrath is a terrible thing to behold, yet there is a part of Nasir, a horrible, selfish part, that enjoys it. Agron is doing this for _him_. Agron is defending _him_. 

They fight pitilessly for a few long moments. Nasir's heart clenches every time Agron takes blow. There are spectators gathering, accompanying fight with cheers and curses and insults, until Spartacus separates them with a shout. Donar is bloodied and bruised and Agron's ribs are scratched where he was dragged across the hard ground. Spartacus asks for explanation and gets none. Agron does not repeat Donar's words. Instead, he says, "Lay hand on him again and I will fucking kill you.”

Nasir makes attempt to ignore the shiver that words cause upon him. Agron turns and enters villa with frown deep enough to frighten Jupiter himself. Nasir follows him, watches as Agron punches a wall with a shout. Nasir jumps forward, cradles Agron's bloodied fist between his hands. “Please, do not inflict further harm upon yourself.”

“It is nothing. Donar will receive it in tenfold.”

Nasir shakes his head. “Gratitude for coming to assistance, but I do not wish to be the cause of enmity between you and Donar. You two are of the same country, are you not? Germania.”

“It matters not. I will see fucking tongue cut from mouth so that he may never speak our language again.” Agron takes a deep breath through his nose to settle his anger. Nasir leaves to grab wine and clean cloth. When he returns, Agron seems calmer. “Apologies,” Agron says as Nasir starts working on new injury. “I am aware that you do not need me defending you. You are capable of doing so on your own. But I am a man often standing prisoner of my anger and act upon it before rational thought can prevent me from it.”

Nasir smiles, raises eyebrow. “I have noticed,” he says. “Yet I would not have you be at odds with one another because of me.”

“You are not one who caused offense,” Agron says. His hands move up to rest on Nasir's shoulderblade, caressing skin lightly. Nasir leans into movement before he acknowledges it. “But Donar's mouth speaking words that stand untrue.”

“Not wholly untrue,” Nasir says. “I did give cause for doubt. As for the rest, I have been called worse things than whore. The position of sex slave leaves room for many such insults.”

“Which I would not have uttered,” Agron growls again. “Nor believed to be true. We were all forced to be things that we are not. You are more than your dominus made you, just as much as Donar is a shit that I will see to grave.”

"To hear such words gladdens heart," he says and there is a part of him that stands thankful that Agron does not share same thought with Donar, that he trusts him fully. Nasir dabs the wound on Agron's side and the gladiator hisses. “Tell me of your country,” Nasir says, to distract him from the pain.

“The Lands East of the Rhine?” Agron asks, surprised.

“The Lands East of the Rhine,” Nasir confirms. 

Agron smiles. “Words sound even more beautiful when they come from your lips.” Nasir smiles, feeling heat upon cheeks, but has no time to form reply, for Agron says, “It is a cold place, of harsh terrain, yet our people are warm and open. We feel to the fullest and our ways are simple.”

“You miss it,” Nasir says, looking up from the wound. 

“I do,” Agron replies. “But there is no place for me there any longer.”

“And is there here?” Nasir asks. 

Agron looks at him, his face growing sincere and honest. His gaze burns Nasir, pins him. “Yes,” Agron says. “Yes, there is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely satisfied with this chapter but I wanted to update so yeah. I don't think that Donar would do something like that to be honest but I had no idea who to put at his place so? I don't know, i just went with it? hope it doesn't sound too much out of character.
> 
> All I want is to have Nasir and Agron kissing and smooching and cuddling but then I remember I can't because their first kiss is at the temple so I have to hold myself back. I'm having a hard time though :P 
> 
> So what do you guys think? Should I write more?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking place during 2x03.

Their walk after the attack of the cart is silent. Agron stays close to Nasir, yet the Syrian does not raise his eyes. They stay planted on ground, dark and sad. Their light is distinguished and Agron feels guilt because it was his own hand that put out flame. He uttered great lie to Crixus, one that burdens both his and Nasir's heart, yet it is for the good of all that he and Spartacus have strived to achieve, and he would do so again if it meant keeping those he holds dear safe from harm. 

“Nasir,” he says, as they walk. The villa looms in distance. “You realize why this was a necessity, do you not?”

Nasir remains quiet long enough for Agron to think he will not give answer. But then he says, “Yes, yet it does not make consequence seem any less heavier, nor course of action any less deceiving.”

“I am aware,” Agron says and gathers courage to raise a hand and place it around dark elbow in reassuring gesture. The skin under his fingers is warm with sun. “But shed burden from shoulders and let me carry the entirety of it by taking full responsibility.”

“It is too late for that,” Nasir says. “My ears have heard truth, yet my lips have uttered lie. We stand equally burdened, it would seem.”

Nasir does not raise his eyes. It pains Agron, this gaze that does not meet his. He craves for it. He aches to have Nasir's honey-colored glance upon him once again, to feel it burn skin and bare heart. He drops hand with disappointment. Agron knows guilt. No words stand able to ease it, so he keeps silent, for he knows that whatever he may say will not lift Nasir's spirit.

Nasir ceases walking, suddenly. It takes Agron a few moments to realize and he has to take steps back to meet him. “Nasir?” He asks, carefully.

“You did a brave thing,” Nasir murmurs. “I have seen the respect you hold for Spartacus. I know it was no easy task to lie to him. It was cruel, yes, but it was selfless. Yet...”

Agron's heart beats with pace quicker than before, for he sees Nasir's beautiful face twist with something dark and painful, and it aches him. He is afraid of it, of whatever it is that hurts Nasir so. “Yet?” He prompts.

“Yet I cannot help but think – what if I stood in her place? Fate has treated us similarily, Naevia and I. It would be no hard task for me to end up in mines. It might have been so, one day, had you and Spartacus not come to rip collar from neck.”

Agron's body fills with despair. It grips at his heart, hard and merciless and he feels self shaking with the force of it. To imagine Nasir there, to imagine not having ever met him, or having met him and then torn away from his grasp – it is thought that makes his stomach heave. He shakes his head, grips at both of Nasir's arms urgently, as if simple hold could keep him there. “No,” he says through teeth gritted. “Do not speak such thoughts.”

Nasir looks up at him, through lashes dark and thick. His eyes are filled with the same thing that Agron is feeling. “Do they scare you?” He whispers, gently.

Agron swallows. “Yes.”

“That is because such thoughts do no stand too far from reality.”

“If reality was such, then the gods would set me on path that led to you and I would still break what chains bound you to such fate. Of this, I am certain.”

Nasir's face softens, barely, and small smile makes lips quirk. “Do you believe that our meeting was destiny, then? That the Fates had meant for our paths to cross?”

Agron thinks of this, even though he knows the answer. “Yes,” he says. “Do you not?”

Nasir raises his dark hand, touches Agron's cheekbone fleetingly, before withdrawing fingers. Agron trembles. Nasir stands always hesitant when it comes to touching him. He counts his caresses, weighs them as if afraid that he will surpass his limit. “I do,” Nasir says. “I can only hope that the path the Fates have chosen for Naevia stands as lucky as ours.”

 _Lucky,_ Agron thinks and realizes, that is what he has been. He pats Nasir's chest lightly in attempt to lift heavy thought from his brow. “What we have done is for the best. Trust me, little man.”

Nasir nods, eyes big and innocent. So young, Agron thinks. So beautiful and undeserving of all this chaos. “I do trust you,” Nasir says.

Agron trembles with the faith Nasir bears in eyes. He smiles and they resume walking, but this thing looms between them, dark and dangerous, yet Agron is content to ignore it. 

\---

Back at the villa, they watch as Crixus cries at the heavens, his sorrow loud enough to shake the gods off their thrones. They watch as he falls to ground, as he crumbles and thrashes against the bodies of those that seek to ground him. 

“What a terrible thing love is,” Agron hears Nasir murmur, almost in awe.

“A ruin even to those who stand the greatest amongst us,” Mira replies. Her gaze lingers on him meaningfully, Agron thinks.

“We shall all fall to it one day,” Agron says. He looks at Crixus and imagines his own self at the Gaul's place. He imagines crying out Nasir's name with knees sunk upon ground. He imagines Nasir gone from this world. Or worse yet, he imagines Nasir alive with Agron thinking him dead. An ache strikes his chest so suddenly that he cannot draw breath for long moments. Agron does not know when Nasir occupied same place in Agron's heart, as Naevia has in Crixus', yet he has.

“Sweetest death,” Nasir says. “To die for love.” Agron shudders when Nasir's fingers brush his own.

“Yet not so when one remains while the other is gone,” Mira says. 

For mere moments, Agron questions his decision, yet when he looks at Nasir again he finds resolve regained. He will not have Nasir perish in vain attempt for Naevia's life, no matter how much it pains Agron. Crixus would do the same, if their places were exchanged and Naevia stood where Nasir now does. Agron but only seeks to protect Nasir, to see him to safety and away from those who would see his neck clasped in collar again. 

Agron enters the villa. Inside the walls, it is harder to hear Crixus' shouts, yet they still ring loud and clear in Agron's head, just like Nasir's words. 

\- - - 

He finds Nasir later, after Agron and Spartacus have made decision to move towards Neapolis. The Syrian stands almost as grievous as Crixus himself. 

“A sword on his chest would be a blow least felt,” Nasir says as he watches the Gaul drink to oblivion.

Agron smiles tenderly at how caring Nasir still is, how beautiful and compassionate. He reaches forward, wraps hand around Nasir's arm, feels tense muscle beneath dark skin. “We've all made sacrifices,” Agron says softly. He, too, has lost a brother. He, too, has learnt to live with grief. Spartacus stands the same. Crixus will survive, just as they have. “Crixus now makes his.”

Nasir shrugs off his touch, takes forward step. “I would speak with him.”

Agron grasps arm again, pulls him back gently. “Your words would only cause greater suffering,” he says, each word drawn out and emphasized in attempt to make Nasir understand. “If he knew the truth – I would not have you and countless others fall in vain attempt.” He reaches forward, cups Nasir's cheek, feels his temple twitch under his palm as the Syrian swallows. He gently holds the silken hairs on back of Nasir's neck between fingers. 

The Syrian nods, and Agron is aware that his words have not managed to pierce heart, yet there are things more urgent waiting for them. He tells Nasir to follow him and leaves for courtyard. When he looks behind, Nasir is not there. 

“Fuck the gods,” Agron murmurs under breath, but makes self walk forward. If he loses Nasir because of this, he will at least know he still draws breath and does not lay dead within tunnels of the mines. 

At the courtyard, men and boys and women train with blunt swords under the watchful gaze of Donar. Agron casts the man a glare, anger awakening again at memory of words he uttered. Agron leans against marble pillar, watches absently as blow after blow is given, growls at Donar when the man happens to look at him.

“You cast gaze dark enough to extinguish the sun,” comes voice close to him and Agron turns to find Mira smiling at him. “Does Donar stand object of your displeasure?”

“I will cut tongue off his mouth and place it in his brains so he may think before he speaks,” Agron growls, loud enough to be heard over clash of swords.

“It was not to you that he caused offense, if I recall correctly,” Mira says.

Agron sighs in frustration. He has patience neither for Mira's games nor her knowing smiles. “It was to one I consider friend and I would have myself defending him.”

“ _Friend_ stands too inadequate a word, though, does it not?” Mira quirks her eyebrow, eyes glinting. 

Agron rolls his eyes. “What is it you imply?”

“I imply nothing. I only ask that you word whatever it is that your gaze and touch have already declared.”

“And what might that be?”

“That you love him,” she says, simply. It _is_ that simple, Agron thinks, yet it is not. He loves Nasir with intensity he has not known before. It is something deep, something he feels to his core, something pure and simple and beautiful. 

“Does it not stand too early to call it love?” He asks, after a moment. There is part of him that warns him against such conversations. He stands gladiator, born for blood and battle, not words more fitting to love-struck wives and young maidens. But he has witnessed Mira's gaze upon Spartacus. He has seen her love and has seen her strength. He only wishes that he finds way to combine both as well. 

“Does heart know time?” Mira asks . “It is what it is. It is what you name it.”

“It is difficult task to find name for things never felt before,” he says.

“You love him,” Mira repeats. Agron already knows. “And I think he loves you too.”

There are times, moments small and fleeting, when Agron allows self to believe that Nasir feels same way, that Agron has occupied same space in Nasir's heart that Nasir has in his. They are absolute happiness and sweetest ache, those short moments. Now stands such a moment. Agron feels full in his bones, in his chest, in his stomach. His breast swells with something unnamed. He almost bursts with it. It is only mere heartbeats later that he remembers – Nasir is not meeting his gaze today, because of choice that Agron made. 

It is a while before he realizes Mira has left. 

Nasir comes to him when food is served. Agron sits at marble steps with shade upon him when the Syrian sits beside him, bowl in hand. Agron accepts it when it is offered.

“You have not eaten,” Nasir says. “So I am making you eat.”

“Lest I die of starvation?” Agron teases, spirit almost immediately lifted. Nasir sought for his company and not that of any other. 

“Lest my mighty giant loses strength and falls beneath Roman sword,” Nasir says lightly. 

“Worry not, little man,” Agron says. “You shall not be rid of my presence that easily.”

“This I hope,” Nasir says. “Which stands the reason that I keep you well-fed.”

“Both with meal and sweet words,” Agron replies. It earns him a soft shove of dark elbow on his ribs. Agron grins and takes meal, with Nasir a comforting presence by his side. 

\--- 

When he sees Nasir again, Agron stands with blood pooling in mouth and with Crixus's shouts filling ear. He looks across courtyard, in Nasir's eyes, but they do not meet his. He knows there's anger on every line of his face, but what stands as most prominent feeling is hurt. Nasir told the truth to the Gaul. Agron was expecting it would be so, yet betrayal jabs at heart like searing hot knife. He is left burning with it. It claws at ribs and chest. Yet, all the while, Agron thinks: I made him do something he did not stand willing to do.

Agron refuses to join search for Naevia. It is no use anymore – pretending. Spartacus does not see. The face of his wife takes Naevia's place and it fills vision with things that could have been. He wishes to save Crixus' woman, for he failed his own. Agron does not care. He has people of his own that he failed, and people of his own that he has to save in their place. Duro. Nasir.

He leaves and enters villa again. He begins gathering his belongings as he waits for those who would join him. They come, one by one, far more than he was expecting. Nasir is one of the first. He comes to him hesitantly, eyes big and bare. Agron looks at him as he drinks water and spits it out to wash away the blood. 

Nasir reaches forward, wine-soaked cloth already in hand. He tilts Agron's face down, wipes gently on his split lip. Agron is only thinking of Nasir's hands so near to his lips and he does not feel the pain. 

“You can wipe look of pup from face,” Agron tells him, with a smile, so that Nasir knows there is no anger lurking beneath words. “You do not stand object of my anger.”

Nasir's face twists in confusion. “I told truth to Crixus.”

“As you should have, from very beginning, if you felt so,” Agron says. “If I force you to act against your wishes, then what stands difference between I and the Romans?”

Nasir shakes his head, his thumb tracing skin beneath Agron's lower lip. “There stand many that I can name.”

“Nasir,” Agron says. “I would have you speak your mind and walk on path set by your own heart. Not by your dominus. Not by me.”

“I do not wish to be at odds with you,” Nasir says.

“You shall not,” Agron reassures him, raises a hand and wraps it gently around Nasir's wrist. “Each time you make choice of your own, you will find me standing proud of your bravery and growth, not angry. I would stand by your side, on path that you choose, wherever it is that it leads me to.” Agron stands surprised at how much he means the words he speaks, at how easily Nasir has perched on his heart. 

“Gratitude,” Nasir whispers. “I thought you would not wish me to be within sight, after what I did.”

“I stand incapable of that,” Agron says, leans forward to rest forehead against Nasir's. They stand close, breathe each other's scent. “Cease to fear me, little man. Cease to fear anyone.”

Nasir swallows, lowers eyes and raises them again. “I only fear losing you,” he whispers, voice so small that Agron would stand unable to hear it, if it weren't for how attuned he is to the Syrian. 

Agron's heart almost ceases within chest. Nasir's words, tenderly spoken, take hold of his insides, fill him with sweet, sweet ache. He wants to kiss him. He wants to hold him. He wants to have hands roam every secret place of Nasir's dark skin. Mira's words echo in ears: _I think he loves you too._

“You will not,” he whispers, when he finds voice again. Sudden thought strikes him and he reaches for the sack he had made attempt to pack mere moments before. He finds what he seeks, pulls it out gently as not to tear it. It is only a piece of red cloth, but it will serve its purpose, Agron hopes. He takes Nasir's hand gently in his, feels veins and bony knuckles beneath thumb, and wraps the cloth around Nasir's wrist. It covers half his forearm, a striking contrast against his dark skin. “Here,” he says. “So that you remember I am always with you, no matter what path you choose to venture.”

Nasir smiles and Agron wants to take this smile, tuck it in his heart and keep it for eternity. Then Nasir's arms are around him, slender and strong. They wrap around his waist. Nasir's face settles in Agron's neck. He is engulfed by him, his senses driven insane by everything that is Nasir. He wants to weep, he wants to laugh, he wants to hold him even if the gods were to strike them apart. He is so surprised by it, by the entirety of Nasir, by the wholeness that he is feeling. It takes a moment, but he soon wraps his arms around Nasir's lithe frame, buries his nose in Nasir's hair and breathes. It is intimate, it is too soon and it is everything.

Agron lied to Mira. He can name it and it is love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please tell me that this isn't so romantic that it's almost ridiculous? I have no idea where I was going with this chapter, I just wanted to show how much Agron wants Nasir to be free and I just wanted them to hug to be honest.


	5. Chapter 5

Agron dreams of Nasir. The Syrian comes to him every night, as if seeking to make up for his absence during day. Most nights, it is a flash of dark golden skin; lean muscle rippling; a flutter of hair as if of raven's wings; honey peeking through lashes as dark as night. Some others, it is Nasir's lips, rounded in moans that even Venus would blush to hear, his flesh moving beneath Agron's, tongue wet and slow on Agron's neck. Tonight, it is Nasir drowning in pool of blood.

Agron awakens with gasp upon lips. It is almost dawn. The air feels cool upon sweating skin, fresh and anew, yet it cannot wash away memory of dream. Agron heaves sigh, closes eyes and sees image imprinted on eyelids – Nasir bleeding, Nasir dying, Nasir falling without Agron beside him.

“Fuck the gods,” he whispers to dissolving dark. He pushes heels of palms upon eyes, rubs until he sees white, until painful memory is erased. He wishes now, as he has done a thousand times before, that he had followed Spartacus to the mines. He cannot remember what thought was strong enough to push him from Nasir's side, what absurd notion of mind put feet on path different than the one the Syrian now treads. Whatever stubborness took hold of head is now but pale shadow compared to thought of Nasir alone.

They are close to Vesuvius now, a day's journey at most, and Agron aches with fear. Nasir is strong and gifted with quickness and sharp observation, yet he is not trained enough to avoid every blade that the Romans cast upon him.

He is proud that Nasir followed choice made from his own will. It is his own choice that shames him.

He gets up and walks to the edge of small stream that runs along camp. The spot they've chosen does not stand hidden well enough, but it is one close to water and high enough to see approaching Romans, should there happen to be any. No disturbance was noted during night, yet Agron does not wish to linger. He rinses sleep from face with handfuls of cold water, wishes he could erase the image of Nasir dying with way equally simple.

“You've awakened.” Donar's voice breaks the stillness.

“Yes,” Agron says, curtly. “Rouse the others. I would have us move.”

It is a while before they find themselves upon path again. The forest is dark with morning mist, the barks of the trees wet with dew. The leaves rustle beneath feet unsettlingly. Vesuvius looms before them, tall and grey. It looks as if it will emerge from trees any moment, yet Agron knows there are many miles still left before they reach its roots. A sense of something ill approaching is constant at back of mind. It gnaws at Agron, like itch that hands stand unable to reach. He casts looks around nervously, though he finds there is no upcoming threat. Yet the feeling still remains, same as the instinct that makes deer run upon seeing lion. Agron wants to _run_ , though he does not yet know what from.

Mist renders it difficult for them to move with speed quick enough for Agron. It is easy to lose way, amongst the maze of trees, so Agron takes time to set them upon path and make certain they follow it correctly. It is not ideal way of travelling, not with breath of Romans hot upon neck, yet it is better than losing selves in woods.

He is running ahead to determine which way they should follow, when he hears the voices. He cannot make out words, yet he knows desperation when he hears it. He can see dark outlines through mist and makes strong attempt to distinguish if they stand Romans. He cannot be certain. He does not know what it is that makes him keep running towards them, without drawing sword or shouting warning, yet he does. When mist finally parts to reveal the men, Agron's face breaks into smile.

He sees Spartacus and Mira first, both standing side by side with weapons drawn. His heart gladdens to see them yet draw breath, yet it is another face he is looking for. For long moments, he cannot find it and his lungs burn with lack of breath. Then, his eyes fall down, to two figures crouched low by tree's roots. One of them is Nasir and he stands pale enough for Agron to believe him dead. _No._ He runs to him, barely greeting Spartacus with pat on shoulder as he goes. There are no gods he really believes in, neither Roman nor Greek nor German, yet he prays to all of them now: _please, do not let him be dead. Please, do not take him away when you have barely given him to me._

He kneels on wet ground, takes Nasir's face between his fingers gently. Skin otherwise warm with sun and life now is cold and sweating beneath his hand. Yet he feels Nasir's breath upon the heel of his palm and his own leaves him with relief. Nasir smiles at him. Nasir has bled most of his blood, he barely possesses strength to breathe, yet he finds enough in him to smile at Agron. Agron smiles back, though it turns into a frown and swallow too soon, for Nasir's head falls again upon his chest. Agron aches. He aches so much that he can barely breathe with force of it.

“Are you Agron?” a small voice comes from next to him. Agron turns and sees the girl – Naevia, he supposes – which he had failed to notice before.

He nods, because his throat clenches and he cannot form words. It takes him a moment to realize that the girl should not know his name. “How – ?” he begins, but throat is choked and he cannot utter another word.

“He has spoken nothing but your name,” she says and Agron bites lips to keep from shedding tears. _I did this._

He stands and pulls Nasir with him, taking all of the Syrian's weight upon his own body. He drapes a slender arm across his shoulders, wraps his own around Nasir's waist. Nasir feels light and right in his arms, yet not like this, never like this. “Fetch the medicus!” He shouts, to no one in particular. “Quickly!”

He drags Nasir forward in hopes of meeting the medicus halfway and save what time he can. Spartacus falls by his side as they walk and makes to help. Agron shakes his head. It is his own burden to carry. “I have him,” he says. “Speak and tell me how he came to be so near grave.” He cannot control it, if there is slight accusation in tone. He knows, somewhere deep inside, that there is no one to put blame on, besides himself and times they live in, yet he is a man captive of his anger and always in need of expressing it. He told so to Nasir once, and the Syrian had smiled. If such smile never comes to be again, it will be Agron that deprived the world of it.

“He ran to Mira's aid and Roman sword found him on side,” Spartacus says. “He fought well and took wound as bravely as any gladiator. I have never witnessed anything like it.”

Agron presses lips and nods. He is proud of him, of all that he has become in nothing but mere days. He was right: this boy could burn Rome to ground, if he willed it. He could shake the gods off Olympus. He could start wars and finish them. He will survive this – he has to.

“He shall live,” Spartacus says, as if reading Agron's thoughts. “He stands stronger than any of us.”

Agron already knows.

The medicus comes to them, an old stout woman, with pouches in hands and an apprentice at heel. Agron knows that they stand low on medical supplies, yet he dares nurture hope that what is in those bags will be enough to save Nasir.

The woman makes to take Nasir off him, but Agron tightens hold on waist possesively. “He cannot walk,” he says as explanation.

The woman makes motion and the apprentice steps forward, laying down makeshift stretcher fashioned from wood and animal skins. “Lay him down,” she orders.

Agron is reluctant to see Nasir from his arms, yet he recognizes the necessity of it. He untangles self from Nasir's weak limbs, lays him down on stretcher gently. Nasir stirs at motion, eyes slowly open to reveal the honey that Agron has missed so. It soothes and aches, Nasir's gaze upon him. It is a reminder that Nasir is still of this world, but also of the things that Agron could lose.

“You frown too much,” Nasir says in voice raspy and pained, as the medicus fumbles with his clothes to examine wound hidden beneath.

Agron attempts smile for his sake. “I am displeased. It has been too long since you compared me to any god,” he says. Nasir laughs, pale face brightening, but sound turns to pained groan. Agron feels the pain as if it were his own. He puts hand on shoulder and hushes him. “Do not speak. Return to sleep and see pain become less felt. I shall be by your side.” He moves hand to clasp Nasir's, tightens hold on fingers.

Nasir's eyes close and Agron can see how hard it must have been for him to keep them open for so long. His eyes travel downward, to Nasir's bare chest, bloodless yet still moving with breath and pulse, and land on wound. It is a horrible thing, long and deep. Dry blood and old pus stain it. Agron can see tissue and muscle within it. He has fought many battles and seen many injuries, probably ones that stand worse than this, but he cannot bear to look at Nasir's wound. It tugs at him, hard and merciless. He stands as if child at first sight of blood, stomach coiling in nausea. It should not have been there. It would not have been there, had Agron joined Spartacus in mines. The blow that fell upon the Syrian should have been averted by Agron's hand, or suffered by Agron's body.

The medicus wraps wound in clean bandage after applying thick crust of herbs, promises to take further care of it once they reach place safer. They choose a few men to bear the burden of Nasir, ones not needed in battle. Agron would be amongst them, yet knows how to fight and he must stand ready in case battle finds them, so he walks by Spartacus' side, listens absently to story told by him and Mira. He listens at retelling of Crixus' capturing, of the way that so many came to be of the afterlife. So few have returned, yet the ones that matter stand among them.

He must have stayed silent for far too long, for Spartacus looks at him once story is told, and places hand upon shoulder in familiar gesture. “How do you fare?”

“I fare fucking well,” Agron growls, even though it stands a lie. “It is Nasir who lies on deathbed because of absurd choice.”

“He would not be swayed from said choice,” Spartacus says.

“I meant mine,” Agron corrects. He does not know how to cope with it – the ache that eats at his insides. It is a foreign thing. He has known pain of body before, has known pain of heart when Duro met his end, but that was a certainty, a thing incapable of change or alternation. This is different – this contant oscilliation between relief and concern. It aches him. The guilt he can stand, but he cannot stand what it stems from. “Had I been there – ”

“Then you would have met equal fate,” Spartacus interrupts.

Agron is uncertain if this would stand a thing he would particularly mind. He remains silent for a long moment and then: “He does not deserve this, Spartacus. If he meets his death, I – ” He does not have words to form sentence. For a short, ridiculous moment, he feels like Crixus. How he ached for Naevia, how he trembled with her pain, how he died when she did. Agron used to stand unable to understand the man, yet now he feels as if their marrow is made of same essence.

Spartacus' hold tightens on shoulder. “He has your heart,” he says, as if realizing it for first time.

Agron knows this. He has known it since he first laid eyes on Nasir. He nods silently, does not trust himself to speak it out loud.

“If you have his, then he will find strength to live,” Spartacus says. Agron wills self to believe it.

–

They find sanctuary at old temple. It is an ancient thing, crumbling by Vesuvius' feet. Lucius stands Roman in origin, yet not in heart, and Spartacus believes it is heart that matters. Agron agrees. The place provides safety, in which Nasir can be properly treated. They see the Syrian moved to room. Lucius provides herbs and medicine that he had in possession and both he and medicus work quickly on Nasir's wound.

Agron visits him often during that day, yet Nasir is never awake. The medicus tells him that they have given him lavender leaves and poppy to chew on so that he sleeps through pain. Agron makes attempt not to give in to worry, yet concern still grips at heart. He busies self with tasks given by Spartacus: moving their supplies in temple, making certain that all in their ranks are clothed and fed. Nasir is constant thought in mind, yet he undergoes effort not to break down or shed tears. It does not do well to lose strength at hard times, for that is when strength is most needed. He would not have anyone see him fall to weakness. If Nasir can be strong when presented with such pain, then so can Agron.

He visits him again when night has fallen, yet finds neither medicus nor Naevia in sight. Nasir seems stable, so he does not let self anger because he was unattended. Colour has returned on the Syrian's cheeks. Agron places a hand gently on forehead, sighs in relief when he finds temperature not risen, and skin not too sweating. After a moment's thought, he takes clothe close to him, dips it in bucket of water and washes the grime of journey off Nasir's skin. He runs it over Nasir's brow and closed eyes, trails it down bridge of nose, over still lips. He is beautiful, he thinks, even like this.

“Wake up, little man. I wait for you,” Agron whispers in the silence, but Nasir does not stir.

– - -

He sees Nasir awake again, at dawn, after decision has been made to move to Crixus' rescue. Nasir walking with eyes open feels to Agron as loud thunder wakening him from terror-filled dream. All blur is again in focus, all echoing sounds loud and clear once more. It is as if seeing light in darkest night. He smiles, broadly, runs to him and touches him, to make certain that he really is there. Nasir looks up at Agron's face and offers smile in return.

“Give me a sword. I would join you,” Nasir says and Agron's smile widens. How brave this boy is – _was,_ from the very start. It is no wonder, Agron thinks, that he loves Nasir so.

“I would have you rest yet a while longer,” Spartacus advises. Nasir does not argue.

“This time you stay and I go,” Agron reassures, to make burden lighter. He has decided now: everything he does from this moment and onward shall be for Nasir.

He does not mean to lean and kiss him; yet, at the same time, he does. It is short and soft, yet it fills Agron fully with _everything_. What he had been before this, he cannot remember, but it must have been some pale shade walking in his place, some empty thing that had not felt up to this moment. If Atlas holds the world, then this is the point that he's shifting it on his shoulders, rearranging the whole of Agron's being at the process.

When he pulls back, Nasir smiles with pleased surpise. Agron wishes to kiss him again, to kiss him always, to kiss him forever, yet he remembers mission and his heart falls. He is aware that he may not come back from carrying out impossible task, that this first kiss might easily be their last one. Yet if he falls, he will fall having known the taste of Nasir on his mouth.

Cities have burned for less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! This is, officially, the last chapter of this story, but I may add a couple more if I find the time to write them. When I began writing this, what I had in mind was to fill in the blanks up to the point of their kiss, which I did, so, sadly, this story comes to an end. However, I have a lot more to write about these two, so keep an eye out. I'm currently working on a modern!au, which I may or may not post, because I have a love-hate relationship with modern-day AUs. But I have many ideas about these two in general which I hope I'll be able to write about. Thank you everyone so much for giving this story a chance and for sticking with it, I'm honestly so happy about the response I received, because I never expected it, so thank you a ton. I'm aware that at times this story got a bit too cheesy and romantic, but I couldn't help it. These two just have me going asdfhjdjg.


End file.
